The Man with Two Names
by the-salt-monster
Summary: Sherlock's up to his eyeballs in a new case, but this time he has to solve it without John. Instead, he has to deal with a stubborn yet clever new sidekick whose name he can't seem to figure out...No romance!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Erm… hi. I'm really nervous about submitting this. There's an OC, which is one of the reasons I'm nervous. I don't know how you, the reader, will react. There's no romance, though, and no slash.  
You'll find that the entire story has been edited within an inch of its life, and is as accurate as it can be, research-wise. If you find any errors, please contact me so I can correct them.  
I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any characters you recognize. **_**However**_**, my original character is **_**mine**_**, as is the **_**plot**_**, so I would be **_**very**_**grateful if you wouldn't steal them!**

EDIT JULY 10, 2011: I'd just like to give a quick thank you to TV Tropes for recommending my story on their website. And to all the readers coming from TV Tropes. I honestly did not know until today that my story was on there-I never expected it at all! Also, I take anonymous reviews, and I can't reply to them unfortunately, but I'd like to thank all those who have reviewed anonymously.

_Sherlock Holmes and the Man with Two Names_  
By the Salt Monster

Ch. 1  
221 Baker St.

I struggled with a fairly large box of belongings. Kicking the door to my new apartment open with one leg and trying to steady myself with the other, I tottered through the doorway and set the box down on a chair sitting in the corner. I went back to the taxicab waiting at the curb, took out two large suitcases, and met a similar challenge getting into the apartment building itself.

As I fought with my suitcases, I noticed the door to the apartment above mine was cracked open and that a pair of eyes was peering through it, at me.

"Couldn't help me with the door, could you?" I called to person behind the door. There was no reply. Instead, the door shut and I was left alone with my battle with the luggage. Much grumbling ensued.

A good while later, Mrs. Hudson found me sitting in the lone chair, staring wistfully out the window into the late afternoon sky.

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Hudson proclaimed, making her presence known. I sprang to my feet in surprise, trying to look as if I was doing something. "I wasn't expecting you to be here so soon, Miss Barber," she continued. "I was hoping I didn't miss you so I could help you with your things, but it looks like you've got it all squared away, now. Mind you, I'm not sure how much help I would have been with my hip and all…"

"Oh, no, it's alright, Mrs. Hudson, I was able to manage." I gave her a warm smile. "I haven't many things to worry about, so I was fine."

"Well, I hope you find this to your satisfaction, Miss Barber. I daresay it's not the best, but with a little renovation, I'm sure it will be wonderful. If you ever need a hand with that, feel free to call on me. I can help you with _that_." She turned to leave, but did a double-take at the door. "Oh, don't forget, there's a kitchen upstairs, but use the separate staircase. And make sure you're quiet when you do. One of the residents of 221B isn't exactly keen on being disturbed."

As the new resident of 221C, I looked around at the white walls of my apartment and sighed. "Blank canvas," I whispered to myself and smiled…until the sound of gunshots above me made me scream and jump about a foot.

I froze and listened for any other sound. Seconds passed. No other screams. No police sirens. No cries of agony. It almost seemed as if gunshots in an apartment were a natural occurrence. Part of me wanted to investigate the gunshots, but another part wanted to keep my nose out of others' business.

I stood still for a minute, wondering what exactly I should do, finally deciding on unpacking my belongings. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little homesick. But wasn't this what I wanted—to get away? My mind was elsewhere as I hung clothes in an empty closet, and I started thinking about the gunshots, and who they were meant for…but why in the apartment above mine? I couldn't help but wonder why…

Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I left my apartment and made the climb up to 221B. I paused before knocking on the door, preparing my speech on "getting to know the neighbors." Taking a deep breath, I knocked three times.

I stood outside for a few seconds, while I heard footsteps coming to the door. There was a bit of fumbling with the lock, and then the door opened.

I immediately recognized the eyes I had seen looking through the door earlier. A man stood in the doorway. He was rather tall, or at least taller than me, and he had a certain way of looking down his nose that made feel incredibly insignificant. He had a mop of black hair that contrasted sharply with his pale complexion and ice blue eyes.

"Yes?" he asked in a bored manner. I froze up, intimidated.

But then, remembering my speech, I started to babble. "Hi!" I said happily with a small wave. "I'm Emily Barber; I just moved into 221C. You saw me earlier today with the luggage, remember?" He made no indication that he had or had not, but stared at me. Awkwardly, I continued. "Anyway, I'm new to London, so it might take me a while to find my way around." He continued to stare at me. I sighed. "Uhm…I guess I was really just wondering what the gunshots were about," I said in a small voice.

The man seemed to unfreeze. "Oh, yes, sorry," he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "Sometimes I get a little bit bored. Please, come in." He stepped aside, and I entered the apartment. What I saw made my jaw drop.

Books, papers, and photographs lined every inch of the floor. Stacks of books sat on every flat surface except for a couch along the wall. There were heaps of clothes lying on an armchair and I counted no more than nine dirty tea cups lying around.

"Wha-what happened here?" I stammered, afraid to take another step for fear of treading on something valuable.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, one of the occupants of 221B," he replied, ignoring my question. "My roommate Doctor John Watson is on his honeymoon with his new wife, but he'll be back in a week or so." I raised my eyebrows at the mess in front of me.

"Is this what happens when he's gone?" I asked. Again, he ignored my question.

"Tea?" he asked instead, moving towards the kitchen. I nodded, though still rooted to the spot. "Don't mind the mess," he added, shoving the pile of clothes off the armchair and stepping into the kitchen. I groaned internally and stumbled towards the chair.

"He's coming back to live with you then, your roommate?" I called after him, taking a seat and trying to make conversation.

He came out of the kitchen tea-less. "Why wouldn't he?" he asked, though he didn't seem like he wanted an answer. I shrugged, but decided to give him one anyway.

"Well, don't married couples usually buy their own home or apartment or flat together after they're married? I mean, not to sound rude or anything, but why would he come back to live with you when he could be living with his wife?" Sherlock blinked and sat on the arm of a chair across from me.

"Sorry, not exactly my area of expertise," he drawled, picking lint off the sleeve of his sweater.

"What _is_ your area of expertise?" I asked, looking at all the books and papers on the ground.

"I'm a consulting detective," he said coolly.

"A _what_?"

"Do you really think he won't come back?" he asked, changing the subject rather abruptly.

"I don't see why he would," I said, starting to get irritated, "if you never answer any of his questions either."

He sighed and gazed out the window. "Now I have to find a new flat mate…" he muttered…sadly? It was hard to tell with him. Then he turned his head towards me, a smug smile on his face and a glint in his eye.

"Oh, no," I chuckled, standing up from the chair. "Don't you look at me. I don't even know you." He raised his eyebrows.

"You don't?" he asked, surprised. I gave him a quizzical look. Did I know him? Had we met somewhere?

"No," I said slowly, sitting back down. "No, I don't. Or at least I'm pretty sure I don't." We stared at each other for a long minute. I started to get uncomfortable, and was wondering whether I should leave, when Sherlock spoke again.

"I know all about you," he said, leaning in towards me. I blinked, but was unfazed. There was no way. "Just from spending ten minutes with you, I can tell you things about yourself you don't even know," he continued.

I returned his smug smile with one of my own. "Alright," I said.

Sherlock leaned back again. "You're obviously not from London, or even England for that matter. Your accent makes that certain. You're from the US, but not somewhere sunny, due to your lack of a tan. Your clothes are nice and rather stylish and you wear sensible shoes, so you come from a city, but not exactly a big one because your hairstyle is out of date. No coloring, no product. I'd assume, by your accent, around the New York area. Buffalo, perhaps.

"As for your family, judging by your clothes and choice of living arrangements, they're fairly wealthy. You're an only child, which explains your confidence and pride. The "ALS Awareness" wrist band that you're wearing has been well-worn, showing that is of great significance to you. Someone close to you died from it…your father, I'd assume.

"Your other bracelet- the one with the charms- shows that you still cherish childhood memories, thus having charms for all of the things you did. You're a very organized person. I can tell from your watch. Not many young people wear a watch.

"When you waved, I could tell you have calluses on your fingers, so you play an instrument of some sort…I'd assume guitar. Your arms are quite muscular, so you're in some kind of sport…probably a martial art. As for your occupation…a teacher. Your clothes aren't exactly business-like, but are still dressy enough for a teaching position. And the pencil behind your ear says it all."

He rattled off all the information very quickly, bouncing around from topic to topic. I gave him a small smile, and had to bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing.

"Well?" Sherlock said after a moment of silence.

"Well, what?" I retorted.

"How did I do? Did I get everything right?" he asked anxiously.

"Erm…no," I said, relaxing and lounging on the chair. I laughed. "Not at all."

"Dammit," he muttered, and started pacing. "What did I get wrong? Was it the city-the bracelet…? The instrument? "

"First of all," I said loudly over his questions, "You _suck_ at placing accents. I'm not from New York." He swore. "I'm from a small town in Ohio. My family is poor. I have two older brothers. I'm using savings bonds to be able to rent this apartment and I got it for a discount on account of the mold. My father's still alive." He swore again. "My best friend's father died of ALS." ("The best friend! Always the best friend!" he moaned.) "Good guess on the 'father' bit, though it affects more males than females, so it was sort of a given. I picked my charm bracelet up from a rummage sale two months ago, along with almost half of my 'dressy' clothes, so no sentimental value there. I'm not an organized person. In fact the only reason I wear a watch is because I got into the habit a few years back when I didn't have a cell phone. I do play an instrument, though;" He gave a smug smile. "the clarinet. I marched bass clarinet in my college's marching band, so that would explain the muscles, and I'm not a teacher."

"What are you then?" he demanded.

"An artist." He rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

"I didn't get anything right," he groaned, staring out the window again. "Maybe I'm losing my touch..." I laughed, but he didn't. I realized I probably shouldn't be laughing at something he was taking so seriously and stopped pretty quickly.

"It was a nice try, though," I consoled him. "And anyway, even if you did get all of that correct, would you really know me? Know what I'm like?" He stared at me again, didn't answer, and turned sullenly away.

"Am I ever going to get some tea?" I asked after five minutes of his silent brooding. He snapped back to reality.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I don't have any tea left, sorry." I sighed, stood up from the chair, and headed towards the door.

"It's all right, I'll pick some up tonight—I'm going shopping. Do you need anything? You're welcome to come with."

"No, I don't shop," he answered darkly, still pouting about his incorrect deduction.

"You also don't clean, either," I muttered under my breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing! It was nice meeting you, Mr. Holmes. Hope to see you again sometime soon," I called and left the apartment and the strange man inside.

**Author's Note: Comments? Questions? Complaints? Suggestions? I love 'em all.  
~Salty**


	2. The kitchen

**Author's Note: I asked for the rights to Sherlock for Christmas, but all I got was this lousy lump of coal. Emily Barber and the plot are mine!**

_The Man with Two Names_  
By the Salt Monster

Ch.2  
The kitchen

I returned from the store a few hours later, trying to carry several large shopping bags up the stairs to the kitchen. After a few minutes of struggle, I succeeded in getting through the door, only to find all the tables covered with test tubes, vials of chemicals, and plastic piping. I groaned and sat the groceries on the floor.

"Mr. Holmes?" I called, opening the sliding door separating the kitchen from his apartment. "Anyone home?" No answer. I poked my head out of the door to look around. He was lying down on the only cleared off couch, his hands in a prayer position under his chin and his eyes closed.

"Mr. Holmes," I repeated. He didn't move. Cursing myself internally, I climbed through the piles of books and papers until I was standing at the foot of the couch.

"Mr. Holmes!" I yelled. His eyes slowly opened and glared at me.

"What do you want?" he asked coldly. I nearly lost my nerve. Nearly.

"I want you to clean off the table in the kitchen," I said politely.

"The table?"

"Yeah, the table. It's a mess." I was starting to get impatient.

"Ooh, very stubborn and bossy," he muttered softly. "Are you sure you're not an only child?"

"_The table, Mr. Holmes_!"

"Ah, but with two older brothers…I guess _someone_ has to take charge," he continued, showing no signs of leaving the couch.

"You're not going to get up, are you?" I sighed, deciding that it was a lost cause.

"Nope."

"You're not the only one using this kitchen, you know," I reminded him as I picked my way back through the mess. He didn't reply. I sighed and decided just to put the groceries away. The table could wait another day. I grabbed the two cartons of milk in one of the bags, and opened the refrigerator…

And screamed as loud as I could.

As I stumbled backwards, away from the fridge, I tripped on my groceries that were still on the floor, dropped the milk cartons, and fell. Instinctively, I grabbed the tablecloth to catch me, but instead pulled it, and all of the test tubes and vials and tubing along with it, to the floor with a loud crash.

I was soaked with milk and what smelled like raspberry soda. I slowly got to my feet and after making sure nothing was broken, stormed out of the kitchen and into Sherlock's apartment.

"_You're insane_!" I shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at him. He lazily opened one eye at me, but then closed it again.

"_You're_ the one wearing milk and raspberry soda," he pointed out.

"THERE'S A _HEAD_ IN THE FRIDGE!" I screamed. "A _HUMAN HEAD_!" He didn't reply, just sighed. "What the _hell_ is that for?" He still didn't answer me. I stood there, actually shaking with rage as the sound of heavy footfalls found its way up the stairs to the kitchen.

"Oh, dear, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice came from the kitchen. Sherlock sat straight up as Mrs. Hudson came into the room. She paused when she saw me, glaring daggers at Holmes and soaking wet.

"Oh, Sherlock, look at the mess you've made in the kitchen!" she said, scolding him like he was a small child. "Your experiment all over the floor, too. Such a shame…" I stared at her, my jaw slack.

"There's a _head_ in the fridge, Mrs. Hudson," I spluttered.

"Yes, yes," she said quickly and turned back to Sherlock. "You should have known better than to keep that head in there, Sherlock. You knew we had company coming."

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he said, as sweet as pie to her. "I'll clean it up, don't worry."

"Make sure you do." She turned back to me. "Emily, dear, why don't you go have a nice hot bath, you look like you've just seen a ghost."

"Nope, only a severed head on a plate in my refrigerator," I muttered, attempting a small smile. As soon as Mrs. Hudson was gone, I went back to staring at Sherlock Holmes, who had returned to his position on the couch.

"I thought you said you were going to clean up," I said.

"I will," he answered. There was a long stretch of silence.

"When?" I asked.

"Later." With both hands on my hips, I strode over to where he was and stood over him.

"I think _now_," I said tersely. He opened his eyes.

"You know I think you're more like an oldest child. Bossy, always wanting your way…" he muttered, though I could have sworn I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

"Oh, shut up and help me clean," I snapped and walked away. To my surprise, he followed me into the kitchen. I snatched a towel off a peg on the cabinet and started wiping the table down while he started picking up the test tubes.

"What sort of experiment were you doing that required raspberry soda?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"One that I would have rather kept intact," he drawled. I sighed, agitated by his habit of not answering my questions.

After the table was dry, I bent down to examine the state of my groceries. The eggs were broken, the bread squashed, the package of instant coffee ripped open, and the fruit I had bought was badly bruised. I groaned and held my head in my hands. There went my grocery budget for the week.

"Don't worry," Holmes said. I glanced up and saw that he was looking at me. "You can take my card and get some more. Sorry." At least he was apologizing, though he certainly didn't look sorry. In fact, it really didn't look like he had any emotions at all.

"It's fine. Besides, it's too late. The store's closed now."

I gathered up the ruined groceries and threw them in the trash, nearly slipping on the milk that flooded the floor. Not that it would have mattered very much, as I was already covered in it.

"I'll get the rest," Holmes said. I nodded and threw the damp towel in the sink. "Oh, and you might want to use the shower upstairs. Yours has mold all over it." I nodded, but then did a double-take.

"You went into my apartment?" I asked, confused. He shrugged.

"Forgive me if I didn't believe all of what you said about yourself, Miss Barber. One can't be too careful."

"_You went into my apartment_?"

"Your plane ticket says you flew out of LaGuardia. You _are_ from New York."

"I only went to college there! I don't have the accent or anything. And how did you find the ticket; it was in my-,"

"You're a teacher," he told me, looking me square in the eyes. "_Tell me_ you're a teacher. An art teacher, maybe, but you _must_ be a teacher."

"I'm an artist!" I insisted.

"No, you're not. A science teacher? Maths?"

"No!" I cried. "I really am!"

"No, no, you're all wrong!" he said impatiently. "The make-up, the hair: it's too professional." He waved a hand, gesturing to me and started pacing, milk causing his shoes to squeak as he walked.

"Yeah, well that's what happens when you're a professional artist," I snapped at him, causing a break in his pacing.

"Who are you, then?" he asked. He leaned across the table until we were the same height. The low hanging kitchen light made it seem like a police interrogation. I took a deep breath to calm myself before answering.

"I'm Emily Barber," I said calmly. He glared at me and resumed pacing.

"You're not _right_, you don't make any sense!" he continued. I sighed and stared up at the ceiling as he continued pacing.

"It's okay; I'm an artist," I said simply. He stopped pacing altogether. I tore my gaze away from the peeling paint on the ceiling, and down to where he was staring blankly into nowhere. His breathing was shallow and his eyes were glassy, scaring me a bit. "Everything all right?" I asked warily, placing a hand on his shoulder. He jerked away from me.

"Yes, it's…it's just fine," he said, though he didn't sound convinced himself. He let out a small shudder and turned back to me. "You're right," he said, back to his cold self. I raised an eyebrow. "You don't conform to the rules of society. It's your job as a…artist," he said, visibly struggling with himself to get the last word out. I gave a small smile as he returned to mopping up the floor, his little rampage over. "I can't believe I didn't see it before-so obvious…"

"Now you're talking sense…sorta," I said. "That still doesn't make up for you breaking into my apartment, though."

"'Breaking in,'" he scoffed, casting me a bemused look. "You left your window unlocked."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't suppress a small smile as I left the kitchen.

-nananananananana Sherlock!-

About half an hour later, I was back, rummaging through the cabinets to try and find food. Sherlock was sitting at the table and looking through a microscope at a Petri dish of a mysterious substance, the previous interrogation forgotten. The mess had been cleaned up, as promised, though the floor was still a little sticky from the soda.

"Where's all the food?" I muttered to myself as I opened yet another empty cabinet.

"Is there nothing in the refrigerator?" Sherlock asked distractedly, shifting the microscope slightly. I gave him a withering look just as he glanced up from his work. "Oh, right," he said quietly. "The head."

"Well, what do you usually have?" I asked him, leaning on the table.

"I try not to eat if I can help it," he told me. I snorted.

"You're kidding, right?"

"The digestion slows down my thought process—does this look like a crescent to you?" He passed me the microscope. I was taken aback, but took it and looked through it.

"It looks like an indecipherable blob," I said honestly.

"Very good," he said with a flicker of a smile.

"What did you say you do, again?" I asked, continuing my search for food.

"I'm a consulting detective."

"Uh huh…and what exactly does a consulting detective do?"

He took out his mobile phone and started texting. I was afraid he wasn't going to answer my question, but a few minutes later he put his phone away. "When the police are in over their heads, which is four times out of five, they call me." As if on cue, his cell phone rang and he was out of the room, talking quickly.

I sat down at the table and rubbed my eyes, feeling utterly exhausted. I was pretty sure this qualified as an interesting first day. A moldy room, gunshots, an odd neighbor, a head in the fridge, a break-in, and a "consulting detective" (whatever that was)… Pretty sure that was more than just "interesting," but I'd take my chances.

I was falling asleep on the table when Sherlock came back in the kitchen, his phone still in his hand, but with a trench coat and a blue scarf on.

"I was wondering," he said slowly, "are you doing anything tonight, Miss Barber?" I sighed.

"If you're asking me out on a date, I'm not interested," I said, my voice muffled by my arms. He blinked.

"No, as a matter of fact, I was just called about a new case. Even if you're not a science teacher, I could always use an extra set of eyes, you know. Of course, if you don't want to, it's understandable, but—,"

"Now hold on a moment," I said, interrupting him and propping my head up with my elbow. "This new case… is it interesting?"

"It should be. There seem to be a few…interesting… components involved, yes."

"Is it dangerous?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager. He actually smiled at me.

"Always."

I grinned and dashed for my room to grab my coat and hat. On to a new adventure.

**Author's Note: Sort of a longer chapter. Let me know what you think! Suggestions are always welcome! (Oh yeah, and thanks to iDestiny for the review and **_**amazing**_** suggestions!)**

**~Salty**


	3. Greycoat Street, London

**Author's Note: Thanks for all the feedback, guys! I really appreciate any form of human contact, be it PM or review.  
I don't own Sherlock. I wish I did, but I don't…**

_The Man with Two Names_  
By the Salt Monster

Ch. 3  
Greycoat Street, London

We sped down the road in a taxi. Sherlock was absorbed in his cell phone, and I was staring out the window at the streets of London whipping by, when I finally had to ask:

"Where exactly are we going?"

Sherlock glanced up from his phone. "Hmn? Didn't I tell you? Greycoat Street—someone was found dead."

"So you investigate murders?" I asked.

"Only the interesting ones," he muttered, returning his attention to his phone.

"What's so interesting about this one?" I wondered aloud.

"There was a note found with the body."

"So I'm guessing notes aren't very common with murders?"

"Especially not ones with my name on it."

My eyes widened and my mouth formed a little "o." "Apparently someone wants to get your attention," I said.

"It would appear so, yes," he said flatly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Well at least he was answering me now. I figured it was a start, considering that a few hours earlier he would barely even talk to me.

We fell back into silence as the cab sped steadily on. Several minutes later, blue flashing lights came into view and the cab slowed down. Sherlock was suddenly alert, closing his phone and sitting up, leaning in towards the crime scene. The taxi came to a complete stop and Sherlock was outside before I had time even to blink. I followed after him as fast as I could.

He strode quickly over to the police tape and pulled it over his head, holding it up for me as I scampered after him. Almost at once, a formidable looking woman stopped him in mid-step.

"Freak," she spat in greeting.

"Hullo, Sergeant Donovan," Holmes sighed, agitation flickering over his face.

"Who invited you?" she demanded.

"Lestrade. Now if you don't mind, I have better things to do than talk to someone as insignificant as yourself." He tried to push past her, but she stopped him.

"Hold on," she barked. "Where's Watson? And who's this?" She wrinkled her nose in disgust as she eyed me over.

"Emily Barber," I said loudly, holding out my hand and giving a very insincere smile. She took my hand gingerly and dropped it rather quickly, turning back to Holmes, who was giving me a very strange look.

"So you _are_ straight then?" the Sergeant said to Holmes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past her, grumbling. I followed him as he entered an apartment building and bounded up three flights of stairs to where more caution tape surrounded a doorway. Once again, Sherlock stepped right under it and into the scene. I stayed outside the door, watching from the door frame.

"What have we got?" Sherlock asked, pulling on latex gloves. A graying man started talking to him in a quiet voice with a few "of course"es and "it would appear so"s interjected by Holmes.

"I can see you've done your best, Lestrade, but my colleague Miss—" Sherlock glanced around and suddenly did an about face to find me. "Miss Barber," he said giving me an inquisitive look, "what are you doing out there? The body's in here."

I scrambled under the tape and to Sherlock's side, a bit nervous about what I was going to see. If it was gory, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to keep my lunch in my stomach…if I'd had lunch… Luckily there wasn't much blood-just a bullet to the back of the head. Although it was pretty gruesome, I'd seen worse on television.

The body was slumped over a desk, his face resting on several papers scattered over the polished wood. His golden hair was matted with blood, but that was all I could see of him.

"Miss Barber, this is Detective-Inspector Lestrade," Holmes muttered distractedly while inspecting the body himself. "Lestrade, this is Amelia—,"

"It's Emily."

"Ah, yes, Emily. Detective-Inspector, this is Emily Barber." We shook hands and he gave me a tight smile.

"Where's Watson?" he asked.

"Honeymoon," I explained.

"Ah, yes. I forgot about that. So, are you a doctor, too, then?" he asked.

"No, I'm an artist."

"Oh…" His face fell a bit and I was left feeling quite mediocre compared to this John Watson.

"I can always use someone who thinks outside the box, Lestrade. The police are so closed-minded, you know," Sherlock said loftily casting me a side-long glance and a small smile.

"Yes, yes, I know, Sherlock," Lestrade muttered, rolling his eyes. "Why don't you just…fill Miss Barber in, then," he said, and left.

"Eighteen-year-old male by the name of Sean Zilber. Learning disorder—dyslexic (you can tell by his papers on the desk; he got "d" and "g" mixed up several times in his writing). His girlfriend recently broke up with him—the picture frame on the table has lots of fingerprints on it, so he's touched it a lot recently. After that, his grades dropped and he started drinking. Quite heavily, by the looks of it."

I stared at him in amazement. "How did you figure _that_ out?" I asked.

"The failing grades on his report card," he pointed to one of the papers on the desk, "and the empty beer bottles in the corner."

"Oh," I said, feeling more than a bit stupid. "Well that sounds more like a suicide."

"Exactly," Holmes said. "But it _wasn't_ suicide. It was murder."

"How can you tell?" I inquired.

"First of all, the bullet came through the back of his head-,"

"Whoops, sorry; obviously."

"Second, there's no gun he would have been able to do it with—,"

"Oh, yeah…good point…"

"And lastly, Sean Zilber doesn't leave a suicide note telling me to come and find him and then sign it 'Joe Green.'" He smirked at my expression.

"It's…been a _long_ day…" I sighed, rubbing my eyes with the palms of my hands. "Where's the note?" I asked. He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me.

"Looks like watercolor paper," I commented, opening the letter. He raised an eyebrow at me. "And the handwriting looks masculine—I don't know many girls who would forget a comma like that…or maybe that's just me."

"I think that's just you. Tell me what you make of the message."

The card read:

_1475369 . 14863456 . 987456321 . 987456321 . 14863456 . 7412369 . - 987456321 . 852789 ._

_Come and find me Mr. Holmes._

_-Joe Green_

"Joe Green," I murmured, "I've heard that name before."

"It's a common name," Sherlock said. "We'd never find it."

"Maybe it's a pseudonym," I offered. "I'm _sure _I've heard that name before, though…wasn't there a football player by that name?"

"It doesn't matter right now," Holmes muttered. "What matters is what all of these numbers mean…" He took out his phone and started taking pictures of the scene. I watched as he worked quickly, taking pictures of the smallest details, such as the victims socks. When he was done, he stripped off his latex gloves and threw them in the trash can.

"Note." He held out his hand and I placed the folded letter in it. He stuck it in his pocket and swept out of the room as I scurried after him.

"Any motive?" I asked as we descended the stairs.

"None," he called over his shoulder. "I expect this was done just to get my attention."

"Poor guy. Did it?"

"Yes, it most definitely has." He held the door open for me as we left the apartment building and passed the police cars. "I'll tell them all eventually," he said when I asked him whether he should leave without consulting with Detective-Inspector Lestrade.

"Where to, now?" I asked as we walked down the middle of the street together.

"Food."

"Really?" I asked, alarmed. "I thought you don't eat!"

"I don't, but I'm not about to listen to your stomach rumble all night like it has been the past fifteen minutes." I flushed a deep red, but I could have sworn I saw him smile.

**Author's Note: See that button down there? The one that says "review"? Yeah, click it…it would make my day! :D  
Anyway, thanks a million to The AlmightyEditor, who has saved my sorry butt on many occasions, has edited everything I have ever laid in front of her, and with whom I have Benedict Cumberbatch marathons on Sundays.  
~Salty  
**


	4. The next morning 221 Baker St

**Author's Note: Oh wow! Tons of reviews! Thanks to everyone who sent me some feedback—I wish I could reply to you all!  
Plain and simple: I don't own Sherlock.**

_The Man with Two Names_  
By the Salt Monster

Ch.4  
The next morning- 221 Baker St.

"I bought some tea," I called into Sherlock's apartment from the kitchen, setting the box on the newly cleaned off table and putting water on the stove to boil. He didn't reply. I could see he was still sitting on the couch in the same position I had left him the night before, his hands in the prayer position under his chin and his eyes wide open.

I set the rest of the groceries on the table and took his card out of my pocket.

"I have your card," I reminded him, walking up beside him. Again, he didn't answer. "I'll just put it on the table, then." Silence.

"Are you still worried about those numbers?" I asked, glancing at the many pictures of the crime scene hanging above the fireplace, directly in Sherlock's line of sight. He made no acknowledgement of my even being there.

I looked at the papers on the side-table, calculations of the many numbers. The book _London A bis Z _also sat there. I leafed through it. It was all in German. "Adgecfi. Adifcdef. Ihgdefcb. Ihgdefcb. Adifcdef. Gdabcfi. – Ihgdefcb. Hebghi," was scribbled on a scrap of paper from where he had tried solving it alpha-numerically

"Maybe we're going about this the wrong way," I muttered, more to myself than anything, since I knew Sherlock wouldn't respond. I thought about it a minute but the sound of the kettle whistling broke me from my thoughts and I made my way back to the kitchen.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" I asked him from the kitchen. No answer, again. "I know you don't eat, but you should at least drink something. Or sleep." I came out with a mug of tea and sat it down on the table beside him. He didn't even move. If it hadn't been for his breathing, I would have thought he was dead.

"Are you even awake?" I asked. He didn't reply. With a sigh, I snapped loudly in front of his face.

At first I thought it hadn't worked, but then he blinked slowly and turned his head towards me.

"Yes?" he drawled.

"Were you asleep?" I asked, utterly amazed.

"Meditating, Miss Barber," he said briskly. He did a double-take when he saw the tea I had placed next to him. "Thank you for the tea," he said, but didn't touch it.

I nodded. "Your card is on the table." I walked back to the kitchen, but paused at the door.

"Hey, um…on my way to the store, some guy offered me seven thousand pounds a month to let him know what you were up to from time to time," I told him, trying to sound casual.

"Did you accept?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I said I'd think about it, but I don't really-,"

"Good, we can split the money."

"Oh-okay…" I muttered, a bit taken aback. "I take it this has happened before?"

"Oh yes. Now, Miss Barber, read off these numbers for me, I want to calculate these in a different way…" He handed me the note and I looked around for a calculator. When I asked him, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "I've my mind, Miss Barber. That's enough."

"You can call me Emily, but I _don't_ think this is the way we should be going about this!" I protested. "It's nothing to do with numbers; it's a code!" He blinked at me.

"Don't be absurd," he said waspishly. "I've tried every code possible, and it doesn't work. This note was meant for _me_, and none of _my_ codes work. It has to have something to do with the numbers."

I glared at him. "I'm not absurd," I snapped. "Look at the pattern! It _has_ to be a code!"

"You're correct about the patters, but you're wrong. It's numbers, I'm sure of it," he said coolly.

"And who are you to tell me I'm wrong?" I lashed out, completely fed up. He got to his feet and glared down at me. I had my hands on my hips and was glaring up at him.

"I'm the smartest man in Britain, Amelia-,"

"Emily."

"—Emily. I think I have the authority to tell a simpleton like yourself that _you're wrong_," he said, quietly but menacingly. I bit the side of my cheek to keep myself from crying.

"Well, then," I said breathlessly, "I'll solve it myself, since you won't be going anywhere adding or subtracting." With that, I turned on my heel and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me.

- nananananananana Sherlock!—

Two hours later, I was still in my room, pouring over books and dictionaries. My mind swimming with numbers, I swept my hair out of my eyes and closed them. I started to wonder if it was possible that I was wrong and Sherlock was right.

But it didn't _seem_ right. The pattern of the numbers was _not_ a coincidence.

I reread the note, even though I had almost memorized the entire string of numbers. "_1475369 . 14863456 . 987456321 . 987456321 . 14863456 . 7412369 . - 987456321 . 852789 ." _ The second and fifth segments of numbers were the same. Just like the third and fourth—identical...But maybe Sherlock _was_ right…

I sighed and pulled a calculator from the top drawer of my desk. I typed in the first sting of numbers. "_1475369._" I paused, unsure of what to do next. I cleared the calculator and tried again. 1-4-7-5-3-6-9. My finger traced the buttons I had pressed. Then I froze.

A tingling sensation washed over me. I felt excited and scared at the same time, but still didn't know how to react. Quickly, I punched in the rest of the numbers. They all fit. All of them.

I bounded up the stairs as fast as I could and pounded the door to Sherlock's apartment. He opened it almost immediately and stared down his nose at me.

"Any luck?" I asked anxiously. He didn't answer me. Instead, he turned his back and returned to the arm chair. "I'll take that as a 'no.' I, on the other hand, managed to retrieve some answers," I said proudly. His head snapped towards me, his eyes wide.

"_What_?"

"Is this what it feels like to be totally, completely right?" I asked, stalling with a smug grin. "First, Mr. Holmes, I must demand that you apologize to me."

"'_Demand_'?"

"Yes. 'Demand.'"

"Fine. I'm sorry I insulted your intelligence," he said curtly.

"Apology accepted…I guess," I said with a grin.

"_The answers, Amelia_," Holmes reminded me anxiously.

"It's a code, Sherlock Holmes, a code." I smiled smugly at him. "Quite a tricky one, too, if I may say so."

"Tell me," he hissed, crossing the room in a few large strides to where I stood. I held up the calculator.

"The numbers make a pattern when you punch them in," I explained. "If you connect the numbers, they make letters. The periods mark the beginning of a new letter and the hyphens mark the beginning of a new word." He stared at me.

"That's so…so…stupid," he muttered, still staring at the calculator. I laughed.

"What's why I was able to figure it out," I said, figuring that the only person who could insult my intelligence was me. "I'm the only stupid one working on the case." He gave me a flicker of a smile, but then turned his attention back to the note and my calculator.

"What does it say?" he asked eagerly.

"'Nassau St.'"

Before I knew it, Sherlock had his coat and scarf on and his cell phone up to his ear calling Detective-Inspector Lestrade.

"Come on, Amelia," he called as he ran down the stairs. "We have a murder to solve."

I ran after him, grabbing my coat and hat off the rack. I hadn't even noticed he had called me the wrong name.

**Author's Note: I dunno if I like that chapter so much, but I suppose it will do. Many, many thanks to those who reviewed. Also, a special thanks to all of my editors! You guys have worked so hard for me and I love you all!  
Leave me a review and let me know what you think!  
~Salty**


	5. Nassau St, London

**Author's Note: Sorry it's been awhile since the last update, but this week sort of got away from me. Anyway, it's a short chapter, so I'll update soon.  
I don't own Sherlock, but all my plot are belonging to us.**

_The Man with Two Names_  
By the Salt Monster

Ch. 5  
Nassau St., London, England

When we arrived at the scene by cab, the police were already there. Lestrade was on his cell phone as we walked up, yelling at someone on the other line.

"I don't _care_, Anderson! He's solved a large chunk of the case, so far- he can do whatever he pleases with the notes!" He hung up on whoever he was talking to and turned to us.

"'Afraid there's been another murder," he said grimly, "and another note addressed to you, Sherlock." In the dim blue light from the police cars, I could see a body slowly rotating, hung from a lamp post in a dark alley. I grimaced and turned my back on the grotesque image.

"How long has the body been there?" Holmes asked, gazing in its direction.

"At least two hours, maybe longer," Lestrade shrugged. "How _did_ you crack the code, Sherlock."

"Do you have the note, Inspector?" Holmes ignored his question and held out his hand expectantly. Lestrade sighed, but handed him a folded up piece of paper, the same as before.

"I _swear_, that's watercolor paper," I told him as he read.

"Do you have your calculator?" he asked and handed me the note.

_1475963 . 74178945123 . 74178945123 . 852789. – 1475963 . 74178945123. – 14863456 . 852789. – 1475963 . 527595. – 741963456 . 74123698 . 7412369 . 987456321 . 74178945123. _

_-Joe Green_

I stared at the card. "That's going to take a while to decode."

"Oh, good, you taught Miss Baker the code, too?" Lestrade said happily.

"My name's _Barber_, and_ I_ was the one who figured out the code!" I snapped and turned back to Sherlock. He was amused by something. "Anyway…" I muttered.

"I'm sure Inspector Lestrade wouldn't mind you sitting in a police car for a minute while I examine the scene. You can decode in there."

"Now, hold on one minute, Sherlock!" Lestrade puffed at him.

"No time for that, Lestrade," Sherlock called over his shoulder as he strolled down the alley to the body. "I've a job to do."

I couldn't help but laugh as Lestrade gaped at the retreating figure of Holmes. "Insane," he muttered as he led me to one of the police cars. "No joy rides, Miss Barber," he commanded and shut the door, leaving me to my work.

I was halfway though decoding (I had the words "Meet me at—,") when the door to the driver's seat of the car was opened and a man entered.

"Have you thought about my offer?" a voice said. My head snapped up and I found the same man who had talked to me earlier in the day about spying on Sherlock. He had dark black hair and a weary sort of face. He was dressed very nicely, but carried around an umbrella instead of a cane. He reminded me very much of someone, but I couldn't quite place who.

"I have, actually," I replied casually, pretending to return to my work.

"And?"

"I accept. Just remind me when you'd like news, so I don't forget—I'm a very busy woman, you know," I said loftily, trying to seem distracted by my work.

"Yes, I know. I'll text you, then." He handed me a slip of paper. "Here's your cheque up front." I accepted it and slipped it into my coat pocket nonchalantly, but actually reeling from having such a sum of money. "I expect to be hearing from you soon, Miss Barber," he said and left the vehicle.

Once I had finished decoding, I walked down the dark alley to where the body was dangling, which not so coincidentally was where Sherlock was. I handed him the decoded message.

"'Meet me at my house'?" he read solemnly. "How will this work…"

"Well, we should probably start by where Joe Green lives," I suggested. He didn't answer. Instead, he was absorbed in his phone yet again. When I looked over his shoulder, he was Googling the name.

"Sixty-nine-million-eight-hundred-thousand hits," I said. "Do you expect to find an answer in that?"

"No," he confessed. "I think it's a pseudonym." I thrust my fist in the air, prompting an alarmed stare from Sherlock.

"Oh!" I crowed happily. "_Who called it_!" He gave me the strangest look, and I lowered my fist, feeling a little embarrassed.

"Well then," he said, more to himself. "What is the pseudonym for?"

"It could be another word that also means 'green,'" I offered. "Like chartreuse?"

"It could be," he muttered, starting to pace. "Or it could be something else. Another language?"

"Um…it could be like vert… grün… verde… grønt…" I listed the names for green off on my fingers. Sherlock froze and snapped his head towards me.

"What was that last one?" he demanded, walking over towards me.

"What—'grønt'? That's Norwegian. I learned that-,"

"No, no, the one before that!"

I counted on my fingers. "Verde?" I asked. "That's Italian. Or maybe Spanish-I could never keep-,"

"_That's it_!" he cried, clapping his hands together and cutting me off. "Oh, that's brilliant! Oh, why didn't I think of that?" I had never seen him this excited. It was a little bit scary. "I just _love_ it when a serial killer knows what they're doing!"

"What? _What_?" I asked, _really_ confused. He didn't answer me. Instead, he grabbed me around the waist and twirled me around, absolutely beaming. His smiling was contagious and soon I was grinning as well.

"I don't understand," I said through my smile.

"Oh, it's genius!" he yelled. "_I'm _a genius! _We're_ genius!" He walked back out of the alley, a certain spring in his step. I stood frozen at first stunned by what I had just witnessed, but then remembered that he was taking me home.

"Wait, I still don't get it!" I called after him, running to catch up.

"The opera, dear Amelia! We're going to the opera!"

**Author's Note: Used Sherlock's reaction to a new case in the beginning of Study in Pink as a reference of sorts for the last bit. It might seem a little OOC, but if anyone has suggestions on how to make it seem less so, please let me know. Still no romance. Ever.  
Reader challenge time! If you're feeling up to it, I would love to know what you think Emily looks like. Just short little description, nothing too elaborate. I'd really like to know!  
I'd still love to hear any comments, questions, or complaints. Any feedback would be much appreciated.**

**Oh, hey. And thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys have made my week **_**far**_** more enjoyable. Thanks bunches! **

**~Salty**


	6. 221B Baker Street

**Author's Note: I didn't mean to go this long before updating, but I realized I needed to edit a few things, and didn't get the time until this afternoon. And if anyone notices any editing mistakes (such as two paragraphs merged into one), please contact me and I'll correct them-I was having trouble with the document up-loader today...  
I also don't own Sherlock, in case anyone was confused about that…**

_The Man with Two Names_  
By the Salt Monster

Ch. 6  
221B Baker St.

Three hours had passed, and I still had no idea what was going on. Sherlock hadn't spoken to me since his epiphany in the alley, and he had turned his full attention to his laptop the moment we got home.

"What's with the opera?" I asked for the fourth time. He didn't answer for the fourth time. I sighed in annoyance, but carried on with what I was doing. I was measuring a capful of bleach. I dumped it in a spray bottle filled with water and smelled it. It still smelled of tap water.

"Do you think it would matter if I put more than a capful in?" I asked. I looked at the jug of bleach to see if it said anything and then added another capful without waiting for his answer that I was sure would never come.

"What exactly are you doing?" he drawled suddenly, his eyes not leaving the computer screen.

"Oh, good, you're alive!" I cheered sarcastically. He blinked. "I'm cleaning the mold off my walls so I can paint them." He sighed, but otherwise didn't give a response.

"Whatever," I muttered. "If you want to tell me anything, I'll be in my apartment. Knock before you enter. The bleach might be a bit strong." I turned to leave.

"We're going to the opera tomorrow night, Miss Barber," he said quickly as I was leaving the room. I turned back around.

"Yeah, I _know_ that, you said it before," I reminded him crossly. "You haven't told me _why_, though." I crossed my arms across my chest. "_I'm_ not going to any opera, anyway."

"Yes, you are," he said, looking up at me from his computer. "It's _La Forza del Destino_. Sound familiar?"

"Yeah, so? It's Verdi. I—." I froze in mid-sentence. I gave a small "oh" or recognition.

He smiled at me. "Continue," he said expectantly.

"Giuseppe Verdi," I said flatly, "orchestral composer, including several operas. Translated to English his name would be sort of like 'Joseph Green.' His 'house?' An opera house, obviously. _Hot damn_ I feel stupid."

He nodded. "Very good," he said.

"Twelve years of orchestra have helped," I muttered. "But I don't think you heard me before. I said I'm not going to an opera. I have nothing to wear."

"Nothing to wear to what, dear?" Mrs. Hudson appeared from the back entrance to the kitchen.

"Nothing," I mumbled. "It's just an opera thing I was thinking of—,"

"I'm taking Miss Barber to the opera tomorrow night," Sherlock explained, cutting me off.

"Oh, that's _wonderful_!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "Oh, I _knew_ you'd find someone, Sherlock! I'm just so pleased you two have got on so well!" Holmes and I exchanged awkward looks.

I coughed loudly. "Well, I was thinking about just wearing a skirt and a nice shirt or something," I said, trying to change the subject.

"Yes, I suppose that will work," Mrs. Hudson sighed, sounding faintly disappointed.

"It's the opening night," Sherlock added. Then all hell broke loose.

"You can't wear just a nice shirt to an _opening night_!" Mrs. Hudson cried. "You have to wear a dress! A ball gown and a hat! And do you know what; I might have just the thing. You know Mrs. Turner next door? Well, she used to work at a dress shop way back when, and she might still have one of her dresses. I'm sure she wouldn't mind letting you borrow something for a day or two. Just recently I told her..."

She rattled on and on, tugging on my sleeve to take me over to Mrs. Turner's. When she wasn't looking, I mouthed a sarcastic "thanks" to a smug looking Sherlock and followed her out of the kitchen.

She dragged me outside in the frigid December air and we walked next door to Mrs. Turner's, who welcomed us in and took us to a closet in the back of her house.

"My daughter Julia used to wear this dress when she was younger, but not anymore, I guess…" she told us as she dug through the closet. "Ah! There it is." I braced myself for a hot, nineteen-sixties mess full of weird patterns and bright colors. Mrs. Turned opened the garment bag with a flourish, and-

"Well… that's not exactly what I was expecting," I muttered, inspecting the pale blue dress made of flowey material with a silver embroidered bust and a matching jacket.

"Early sixties, dear," Mrs. Turner reminded me with a sigh. I held the dress up to myself. It looked like it would fit.

"It's lovely," I said sincerely. "Thank you." She showed us out, but not before making me promise to tell her all about it the next day.

"Well, there you go, Miss Barber," Mrs. Hudson said as we walked back to my apartment. "Now you have a dress for the opera. All you need now is a hat."

"No," I said firmly. "I'm not wearing a hat." Mrs. Hudson gaped at me.

"Why not?" she asked, shocked. "All the ladies will be wearing them!"

"All except me," I said. "I don't want a hat; I think they look really stupid."She continued to gape at me, but I ignored it. I didn't think the fancy hats some ladies wore were particularly flattering, especially on me.

After entering the apartment building, I thanked Mrs. Hudson, put the dress in my closet, and went back up to the kitchen to get the bleach.

"How was the dress?" Sherlock asked. "I'm sure you've always wanted a dress from the sixties."

"It was wonderful, actually," I said truthfully. "Blue. And a matching jacket. Really quite nice."

"Hat?"

"No hat," I said adamantly. "I don't like hats."

"Really?" he said sounding mildly interested. "Are you sure, because I've a nice top hat I was thinking about—,"

"_No hats_!" I snapped, but when I turned to look at him, he was smiling. "Very funny," I muttered, but started to smile myself. "So what exactly are you expecting to happen at the opera?" I asked him, putting the jug of bleach back in the cupboard.

"No idea," he answered. I blinked.

"Are you serious?" I asked, unnerved. He nodded. He seemed perfectly okay with it, too. It was silent for a long while as I stared at him while he returned to typing on his laptop. The man was insane.

"Uh…well…I guess I'm off to clean my apartment. I'll…talk to you later," I said finally, unfreezing and heading back down to my room.

Many hours and much scrubbing later, I was finished and the walls looked impeccably clean. I was exhausted—cleaning had taken almost all night—but, other than that, I was okay. I trudged up the stairs to the kitchen to wash the spray bottle out, and found Sherlock absentmindedly plucking the strings of a violin.

"Good morning," I said. He didn't answer. Instead he scratched out a few horrific chords on his violin. I cringed as he did so, but tried to concentrate on washing out the spray bottle.

He started to play random chords- most sad and melancholy. As I sat down with a cup of tea, he continued with a whole slew of diminished chords which lasted several minutes. I was starting to get tired of listening to the shriek of his violin-and was just about to say something-when he changed moods, and began to play more cheerful chords and little tunes that I could recognize. It felt like sort of a compensation for my patience being tried.

"I didn't know you played violin," I commented once he was finished.

"It helps me think," he told me shortly. I shrugged and pushed a cup of tea towards him, which he only glared at. "How does your flat look?"

"Amazing," I said with a contented sigh. "However I wouldn't recommend going in it—the bleach is rather strong. I can't wait to paint it, though. I just have to decide what to do…" It was silent for a while as I sipped thoughtfully at my tea. It seemed sort of funny that we were having a semi-normal conversation after so much had happened the past two nights.

"Hmn…," I sighed, standing up and washing my tea cup. "Is there really nothing to do around here other than solving a few murders now and then?" I asked jokingly. "I mean, really! I haven't had a conversation that hasn't involved death since I moved in here!"

"You moved in two days ago," Sherlock pointed out. I shrugged.

"It feels like forever." I turned to look out the window. The sun reflected off the snow on the ground, blinding me. Everything looked bright and hopeful.

"Today seems like a good one, don't you think?" I asked Sherlock.

He didn't answer, but scratched out a few more minor chords on his violin.

**Author's Note: Thanks to all of my lovely reviewers! You're all wonderful and I love you! And also a thanks to everyone who participated in my "reader challenge!" It was really great seeing what you guys think.**  
**I'm not the best artist, but I did a sketch of how I picture Emily, and it's posted on my deviantArt. I'll also have a link to it on my twitter (Housuskowskinez), as well as updates on when the next chapter will be up! So if you wanna check that out… ;) **

**Hope everyone has a splendid week!  
**

**~Salty**


	7. The Royal Opera House, London

**Author's note: Really quick editing job—let me know if I've missed something!  
Sherlock doesn't belong to me. If he did…well, let's not get into that, shall we?**

_The Man with Two Names_  
By the Salt Monster Ch. 7

The Royal Opera House

I examined myself in the mirror outside my apartment. "Oh, I'm a mess," I moaned and tried to pat down flyaway hairs. My curly gold hair was pulled up into a bun that would have been elegant on anyone besides me. Footsteps on the stairs behind me told me that Sherlock was out of his apartment.

"You look fine," he told me as he walked past me and out the door. I gave one last fleeting look at my hair and dashed outside after him.

He was hailing a taxi when I came outside, which actually looked really funny because he was wearing a tuxedo and tails. I shivered at the curb until a cab pulled over and let us in. When we got inside, I was still shaking, not from the cold, but from nerves.

"Something's on your mind," Sherlock concluded as we pulled up to the opera house. I saw limousines lining the curb and began to feel sick. I gave a shallow nod.

"This opening night…" I said apprehensively. "Who exactly is going to be there?"He shrugged.

"High society mostly," he answered calmly. My stomach did a flip.

"Yeah, high society and a certain Emily Barber," I muttered with a nervous laugh. "I'm not going to fit in at all-you know that."

"Just look down your nose at everyone, exaggerate the truth, and no one will know the difference," he assured me and got out of the cab with me following close behind. He offered me his arm, and I took it as we entered the house.

The lobby was lavishly decorated with portraits and chandeliers, and the opera-goers were dressed to match. With hats. I did my best to hide myself behind Sherlock as people started to stare at me.

"Let's just get to our seats, okay?" I said anxiously, I wanting nothing more than to disappear. Sherlock smirked.

"We have to get our tickets first," he reminded me.

"_We haven't got tickets_?" I hissed. "How are we going to get in?"

"Relax!" he hissed back. We walked over to the ticket booth where a young lady was working. "Hello, two tickets under Joe Green?" He took the tickets she handed to him and waved them in my face.

"Oh, he was nice enough to get us box seats," I muttered sourly, shoving the tickets back at him. He gave a flicker of a smile.

We entered the theatre itself and heard Sherlock's name almost at once in the many conversations going around us.

"Sherlock! Mr. Holmes!" A group of girls in their late teens and all wearing ridiculous looking hats were gathered around a row of seats and calling over to us. I could hear Sherlock groan, but he turned around and we walked towards them.

"Good evening, ladies," he said, dead-pan.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," a blonde giggled, holding out a gloved hand. "Do you remember me? I'm Stephanie Robins. You solved my father's murder three years ago." Sherlock just stared at her and she slowly withdrew her hand.

"Sorry, I've had a bit going on since then," he said stiffly. "Might I introduce my date: the _celebrated_ American artist, Emily Barber." My jaw nearly dropped, but then I remembered what Sherlock had said: _exaggerate the truth. _

"Hi, pleasure to meet you," I said, playing the "famous artist" act up by giving a lofty smile.

"A-American, you say?" Stephanie said, looking startled. "Well, that explains your lack of a hat. You see, it's customary in England to wear—,"

"I _know_," I said haughtily. "I just don't like wearing foolish looking hats. It's not exactly the best taste." Once again, the girls looked stunned.

"Well," another girl said, making a transparent attempt to change the subject. "You're an artist? Have we heard of any of your works?"

"Perhaps," I said enigmatically. "_Big Takes on Little Italy_? _Romance in 'Bromance'_? _Southern Bell poses for Pornography_?"

"Oh, I might have heard of the last one," the girl said, obviously just trying to be polite. The announcement was made that there was twenty minutes until the curtain rose.

"Alright, time to get to our seats," Sherlock said quickly, giving me an amused look. I smiled cheekily up at him. "Pleasure talking to you ladies." We strolled away and started looking for the stairs to the box seats.

"Don't you think you went a little bit overboard?" he commented as soon as the girls were out of earshot.

"You started it," I countered.

"Yes, but the art names? It seems a bit over the top, don't you agree?" I glared at him.

"Hey! _Southern Bell poses for Pornography_ is hanging in a gallery at my university, for your information," I snapped. "Besides, they didn't seem too impressed."

"I don't know… they're taking off their hats." I glanced over my shoulder. They were indeed.

"Maybe I had more of a lasting effect than I thought," I muttered and smiled, in a particularly better mood.

"You're American, therefore much more stylish and attractive than anyone here. Whatever you say is golden."

"Thus is the workings of the teenage mind," I concluded.

"Precisely."

We reached our seats. Most people in the main house below were still milling about and socializing. Sherlock turned his attention to the program as I people-watched. "D'you see that lady's hat? It looks like a lobster found its way into her hair!" He didn't respond. "Look at that dress—tell me that's not a bit inappropriate for the opera." Silence. I leaned back in my chair, bored and looking for something to do.

"So what's _La Forza del Destino_ about?" I asked Sherlock, whose nose was still stuck in the program.

"It's a cursed opera, though I already knew that," he said, not exactly answering my question. "In 1960 an American baritone dropped dead just before singing Don Carlo's aria in the third act. And a few years ago, the power went out at a performance in New Jersey, again in the United States." I blinked.

"Well, this is going to be interesting, then," I said. The five-minute call was announced and the people below us began to take their seats.

"I realize you've had a long day, but try not to fall asleep, Miss Barber," Sherlock said, closing his program. "At least not in the third act."

"So that gives me-what?-three hours?" I asked with a grin. He smiled.

"Actually, only a little over an hour and a half." I rolled my eyes.

The whispers died down to complete silence. No rustling of programs, no children crying…it was silent. The lights dimmed completely and the overture started.

I managed to stay awake through most of the first act, but by the time _Ah, Per Sempre, O Mio Bell'Angiol _rolled around, I started to doze I knew it, I was being prodded none too gently awake by Sherlock. "Act three is starting soon," he said, continuing to poke me. My eyes blinked open.

The world was sideways.

I realized my head was actually lolling onto Sherlock's shoulder and quickly straightened up, turning the world right-side-up again.

"What did I miss?" I asked through a yawn.

"Only half the opera."

"So nothing exciting happened yet?"

"Well, the Marquis died, Don Carlo and Alvero joined the army, and Leonora is living the rest of her life as a hermit, but other than that…no," he said. "But I expect something will soon." The lights dimmed again. I groaned and muttered something about going back to sleep, but Sherlock gave me another stern look and I quit complaining.

I watched the first scene…sort of. Really I was half asleep and wasn't paying much attention to anything, so I jumped when I felt Sherlock's lips right next to my ear.

"I need to check a few things out," he whispered. "Stay here. I need someone keeping a lookout." I made to protest, but he had already left. Feeling very much like grumbling, I continued to watch the opera as the second scene opened.

Mortal wounds, letters of some sort, and more talk of avenging death later, the actor I was pretty sure was playing Don Carlo took center stage. He looked nervous, and I couldn't blame him, since he was about to sing a cursed song in a cursed opera. I remembered what Sherlock had said about staying alert in the third act, and sat on the edge of my seat.

The crowd was absolutely still as he opened his mouth.

"Morir, tremenda cosa!" he sang. _Nothing_. For a few seconds I thought all was well, but then…

_Gunshots_.

The baritone let out a strangled yell and fell over. _Dead_.

_Screaming from the crowd_. My heart raced. Something had happened. It had to be part of 'Joe Green's' plan, but without Sherlock beside me I was utterly lost and confused.

The spotlight that was originally fixed on Don Carlo started swaying back and forth as a man ran across the stage. _It was Sherlock_. Panicking, I sprang from my seat and leaned over the railing of the balcony as far as I could while three men pounced on him and dragged him off the stage.

"_SHERLOCK_!" I screamed.

Then everything went black.

_End of Part I_

**Author's note: (Yeah, the end is a cheap knock-off from_ Study in Pink_, but it fit, so what else can I say?)**

**I'm quite proud of myself for making it this far! It might be a week or two before I update again, so just be forewarned. **

**Thanks to all of my readers and reviewers! You have all lifted my spirits this past week. Feel free to let me know what you think—a PM or a review would be wonderful!**

**If you're **_**dying**_** to know what I'm up to writing/art-wise, or if 's just not your thing, you can follow me on twitter (****Housuskowskinez). I post about music, art, writing, and also share some **_**really great**_** fan art! **

**Have a great week!**

**~Salty**


	8. The Royal Opera House theatre

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any characters you recognize from the stories. I do, however, own the plot and Emily Barber.**

_The Man with Two Names _  
By the Salt Monster

Ch. 8  
The Royal Opera House theatre

I stumbled blindly around the box as the sounds of screaming met my ears. I groped for the door, found the handle, and yanked as hard as I could. It was locked. I stared stupidly at the door, rattling the handle back and forth to no avail.

"No, no, no!" I whimpered, continuing to pull at the door in vain. "Let me out!" I screamed. "Let me out!" I pounded my fist on the door, ignoring the pain that went along with it. Nothing. I flung myself back to the balcony and leaned over. From what little I could see, it looked like all the doors were locked on the main floor as well. People were continuing to panic, but I couldn't let them distract me—I had to find Sherlock.

I stared at the stage. Sherlock had to be there. I searched frantically, blindly sure that the stubborn detective would waltz out of the wings at any moment in his usual, lazy manner…but he wasn't. The stage was silent. The orchestra pit was silent. I found myself tearing up a little bit. He was gone.

I wiped my eyes and sniffed, slumping back in my chair and waiting for the police to show up. I had never felt so helpless…

Gradually the panicking died down and after about ten minutes, the doors to the main floor were unlocked. Now all I had to do was wait for them to get the balconies.

I sat numbly for another ten minutes. A fumbling with the door handle told me that someone was unlocking the door. I jumped to my feet and crossed the distance of the small box, running over to the door as it opened.

"Where's Detective-Inspector Lestrade?" I demanded of the man. He was tall, with greasy black hair and beady eyes. "I need to speak with him."

"Who are you?" he sneered. I scowled, annoyed at the delay.

"The most important person you need right now," I said quickly, running out the door. "Is he in the lobby?" I called, but didn't wait for an answer. I flew down the stairs, stumbling on my dress and trying not to worry too much about what Mrs. Turner would say.

"Lestrade!" I yelled, wading through the sea of police officers and opera-goers in the lobby. "Lestrade!" I ducked between a couple, calling out his name and standing on tip-toe to try and find him. With no luck, I was about to go out the doors and look for him outside, when someone caught my arm and spun me around. I was getting ready to throw a punch, but soon realized it was only Lestrade.

"Miss Barber," he said. "What happened?"

"It's Sherlock," I explained breathlessly. "They got him."

"What? Who's got him? What are you even doing here?" he asked, confused. "You know what- come on." He put a hand on my shoulder and steered me back into the theatre, where a lot of policemen and paramedics were milling purposefully about. I recognized Sergeant Donovan and the man who let me out of the box seats.

"Miss Barber," Sergeant Donovan said, surprised. "Why are you here?"

"'Joe Green,'" I explained. "He said to meet him at his house."

"Yeah, his house, not the opera," sneered the man standing next to her. I glared at him.

"Joseph Green—Giuseppe Verde—_La Forza del Destino_—opera," I snapped. "And he said a house, like an opera house. And he left us tickets." The man gave me a nasty look, but didn't try to argue with me. Clearly, I was unworthy of a retort. I turned back to Lestrade. "Sherlock was kidnapped, or abducted, or something," I reminded him. "He just went blundering off! Then, when that Don Carlo guy was shot, he ran on stage. Three guys jumped him and dragged him off."

Lestrade looked worried as he called for someone to check backstage for Holmes.

"You're sure you saw him get taken away?" he asked me. I nodded. A police officer spoke into a radio, but called back saying that they found nothing.

Lestrade turned back to me. "Don't worry, Miss Barber, we'll find him," he tried to assure me, but he didn't look too convinced himself. "Sally, can you take her home?"

"Wait, _what_?" My mouth fell open. "Why are you sending me home? You _need_ me!" Lestrade ignored me and instead told Sgt. Donovan where I lived.

"We can find him on our own, Miss Barber," Lestrade said, overriding my continued protests. "We have people on the team more than capable of that." Sgt. Donovan started to drag me towards the exit. She was surprisingly strong.

"You know a _thing_ about this case, do you, Lestrade?" I asked him waspishly. He cast me a peeved glance, but if I had to take on the whole of Scotland Yard to find Sherlock, I would. "You'll never find him—you don't know where to start. You don't even have a clue as to who _did_ it, or even what those numbers mean!" The older man regarded me blandly, having turned his attention to other matters.

"You've had a long night, Miss Barber. Get some rest and everything will be fine in the morning."

"_No it will not_!"

I yanked free of Donovan's grasp and stormed back up to Lestrade.

"You need my help," I told him heatedly. "You need it because you need Sherlock Holmes, and without me you don't have a hope in hell of finding him."

The theatre hushed as all eyes turned towards us.

"No need to get loud, Miss Barber," Lestrade told me, glancing around self-consciously. "I only want to do what's best for you. You should rest, you've just seen someone murdered, it's amazing you're not—"

"If you're so worried about me, then let me stay!" I scoffed, but it soon turned into a plea. "I need to be here—to help. I can't just go home and wait, not knowing if you find him." If I was a few years younger, I would have given my best "puppy-dog eyes," but now a stern glare would suffice.

Lestrade was still looking uncomfortable with the attention. Several on the team started to nod their heads and talk in low voices to each other. He sighed, but finally nodded.

"Don't get in the way," he warned me. "And don't touch anything unless we say you can." I smiled, triumphant.

"Well then, Miss Know-It-All, what do you suggest we do?" Sergeant Donovan snapped at me. I raised an eyebrow.

"Look for notes," I answered. "The killer has left notes every time so far—it wouldn't be like him to break a pattern," I reminded her, and then called for the room to hear. "Look for anything that has numbers on it! One _has_ to be here!"

Nobody budged.

Instead, the team stared at Lestrade, as if waiting for an "okay," until he gave a stiff nod. Then, everyone started to work. About time, too.

As clichéd as it sounds, finding a note was like finding a needle in a haystack. After a few moments of wondering where to start, I began searching under seats on the main floor, though I was interrupted quite a few times by people bringing me programs with phone numbers or dates on it. I dismissed them. I started to worry, as a real note had yet to be found.

"Miss Barber, we've been searching for over an hour. I don't think there's a note," Lestrade said, kneeling down beside me as I checked under yet another chair.

"No," I insisted. "It's here. I know it is…" I stood and wiped my hair out of my eyes. I glanced around: everyone was still searching. My eyes trailed to the dark stage. "Has anyone tried looking backstage?" I asked.

"Well, we looked for Sherlock back there, but we didn't find anything, so—where are you going?"

I was climbing onto the stage, which still had the set still on it. Alone, I searched around for a note, looking in prop cabinets, behind curtains, next to costumes… I had just about given up after about fifteen minutes of fruitless snooping. I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair as I turned to leave. But then something in the corner of my eye caught my attention.  
There it was.

Painted on the back of a set in large black numbers, was the message:

_987412365. 74123698.—852789. 74123698.- 852789. 741963456. 74178945123.—741789654. 74123. 14863456. 9874123. 74178945123.—7415369. 741963456. 74178945123. 74178965453. 74178945123.—852789. 741963456. 74178945123.—987456321. 74178945123. 7415369. 74178945123. 74178965453.—74178965453. 14863456. 852789. 987456321.—14863456. 74178965453. 74178945123.—_

_741789656321. 74178945123. 74123. 74123698. 7415369.—14863456. 74123. 74123.—852789. 741963456. 74178945123. -741789656321. 7412369. 852789123. 74123. 7417896321. 852789123. 74175369. 987412365. 987456321.—741789656321. 74178945123. 74123. 74123698. 7415369.—14863456. 74123. 74123.—852789. 741963456. 74178945123.—9874123. 14863456. 74178965453. 987456321.—_

_852789. 74178945123. 74175369.—74178945. 74178945123. 74178945123. 852789.—741789656321. 74178945123. 74123. 74123698. 7415369.—852789. 741963456. 74178945123.—987456321. 852789. 74178965453. 74178945123. 74178945123. 852789. 987456321.—9874123. 14863456. 74175369.—741789656321. 74178945123.—74178945. 74123698. 7412369. 74175369. 7417896321.—_

_75952. 74123698. 7412369. 74123. 74123.—7417896321. 852789123. 987456321. 9874123. 74123698. 74269. 74178945123. 7418965453.—75952. 74123698. 7412369. 74178965453.—74178945. 74178965453. 852789123. 74178945123. 74175369. 7417896321.—7417896321. 74178945123. 14863456. 7417896321.—987412365. 14863456. 987412365. 987412365. 74178945123. 7417896321.—148563456. 74175369. 7417896321.—741789656321. 74123698. 7412369. 74175369. 7417896321._

_-Joe Green_

I straightened up. Despite my worry for Sherlock, a triumphant grin settled itself on my face.

"Does anybody have a calculator?" 

**Author's Note: (If anyone wants to try and decode that last bit, I will give you tea and a hug.) I'm back! With a rather lengthy author's note, as well.**

**Sorry for such a long wait, but I really needed those three weeks! I finished editing this chapter on Monday, but I really prefer Fridays, so you had to wait a few days. Cry me a river. **

**I'd really like to thank _She Steps On Cracks_ for joining my editing team! She's been a wonderful editor so far—I'm really excited to be working with her! I'd also like to thank the rest of my editing team: _TheAlmightyEditor_, _Em_, and my "brother"_ Nob Ody_ for putting time and effort into my stories—you're all so fantastic!**

**…We should get t-shirts…or matching tattoos, like they did for Lord of the Rings! …Oh, maybe not.**

**Onwards: An artist on deviantArt by the name of _AndIMoveSmilingly_ created a beautiful piece of artwork to go along with this story! This is so much more than I've ever asked for, but it's just _SO_ amazing! I'll have the link up on my twitter if anyone would like to view it (I don't trust posting links with ).**

**Which brings me to my shameless plug: I'm on twitter. As _Housuskowskinez_. I post some updates on my writing along with some other random stuff. It's nothing too personal-sometimes just websites I found funny or interesting. You should totally check it out, if only to see the artwork.**

**I think that's it. Have a lovely week!**

**~Salty**

**And thanks to those who review—you _really_ keep my spirits up! :)**


	9. Backstage

_The Man with Two Names_  
By the Salt Monster

Ch. 9  
Backstage

I sat on a stool behind the set piece, punching numbers into a calculator while some poor, unfortunate police officer was assigned to hold a flashlight over my shoulder so I could see. Lestrade paced back and forth behind me. I figured that I'd be polite, since he'd let me stay, but the movement kept putting me off. After I'd entered the same sequence about four times, each incorrect, I turned around irritably.

"Can you stop?" I finally asked him. "It's distracting."

"What does it say?" he asked impatiently, ignoring my request. I rolled my eyes.

"I'm not finished," I told him, still pouring over the calculator. "I think it's a poem, though… the first two lines rhyme…"

"Oh, wonderful; we have a murderous poet," Donovan said, rolling her eyes. I frowned a bit at what she said. It didn't fit. What would "Joe Green" suddenly start writing poetry? I thought about it for a minute, but then the pieces started coming together.

"No, it makes sense," I said. "There's a pattern! The notes—,"

"_The cipher, Miss Barber_!" Lestrade said, losing his cool. I gave him a quick glare, but turned back to the code, my mind still working. Numbers swam in front of my eyes but I wasn't going to risk rushing and making a mistake, not when it could be at Sherlock's expense.

Fifteen minutes later, I turned the calculator off and stared at the decoded note in my hand. A lump had grown in my throat just from reading it.

"What does it say?" Lestrade asked eagerly.

"It says," I croaked and cleared my throat. "It says:

'_Go to the place where the sewer rats are,  
Below all the buildings, below all the cars.  
Ten feet below the streets can be found,  
You'll discover your friend dead, gagged and bound_.'"

Lestrade blinked, looking shocked. "That's not good," he said quietly. "That's _really_ not good."

I glanced at the message written on the set and sighed. "I don't know what to do," I admitted. I turned to Lestrade and shrugged helplessly.

"Well," he started, "we have no leads, no suspects, no-," But he didn't get to finish. Out of the blue, everything fell into place, slowly forming a neat, interlocking puzzle.

"Hang on!" I cried, jumping up and knocking over the stool. "We _do_ have suspects!" He gave me a confused look. "The notes," I explained. "The notes all have a pattern—the watercolor paper, the poetry—it's all art!"

Lestrade blinked. "I'm not following you." I sighed.

"Fine arts," I said starting to get really excited, "can be painting, architecture, music and poetry, drama, and dancing. The notes were all written on watercolor paper, so whoever wrote it had access to art materials. The gunshot—," I paused and looked out at the theatre seats, my mind spinning. Lestrade appeared to be thinking along the same lines as he too was looking around. It was about time…

"It was shot from the audience," Lestrade finished finally. "But that hardly narrows it down - this theatre seats over 2,000 people! It could've been any one of them."I frowned and turned around, facing away from him.

"I know I've heard that name before," I muttered to myself. "Joe Green, Joe Green, Joe Green…" I repeated. There had to be something significant about it; you just didn't meet people with such a common name. Ironic but true. "It's a musical joke!" I exclaimed suddenly, twirling back to face Lestrade. "It's used to sort of make fun of Verde…but who would make fun of the music?" I turned back away from him, rubbing my temples. "The singers and the musicians, obviously," I answered myself, "…but the singers couldn't shoot Don Carlo, because they were facing the audience and he was shot from the front. And the musicians were also facing the audience, so who—?" I froze.

Without a word, I jumped off the stage and climbed down to the orchestra pit. I stood on the maestro's podium and looked up at Lestrade, who was openly baffled.

"It's a perfect shot!" I called up to him. "It was the maestro!"

I climbed out of the pit and into the house. I heard something in my dress rip and looked down to see a tear in the folds of the skirt. Lovely. Mrs. Turner really was going to kill me. Lestrade met me at the theatre floor.

"So we're looking for Sherlock Holmes, a maestro, and…?"

"An art director," I concluded. I'd given it a bit more thought and it was the only explanation I could come up with that fitted. He raised an eyebrow and I hurried to elaborate. "The numbers on the sets, the watercolor paper—the only person with access to all those materials without being questioned would have to be the art director." Lestrade stared at me.

"How did you…? Never mind, I don't even want to know." I smiled. It seemed a little bit of Sherlock had rubbed off on me.

"We also need to find a sewer," I announced suddenly.

"Sewer?"

"The note," I reminded him. "It says 'where the sewer rats are.' I don't know about England, but aren't sewer rats usually found in sewers? That's where we'll find Sherlock."

"The sewer system is huge! How are we supposed to find out where they are?"

"How conspicuous would someone dragging a body down the street be?"

"Probably very." Lestrade's cell phone rang.

I gave him a cheeky smile. "There you go."

- sherlock!-

We sped along the streets of London with the flashing lights and sirens blaring. If Sherlock wasn't in danger, the experience would have been pretty cool. But instead, I stared glumly out the window watching as the road streamed past me. Puddles and concrete flashed by in the early morning light while Lestrade and Donovan talked quickly in low voices.

Suddenly the car stopped along some nondescript street and we got out, surrounded, yet again, by more flashing lights. Yellow police tape surrounded an uncovered sewer drain.

"Down there," a police officer said as we stepped under the tape, pointing down at the dark hole. "The witnesses are mighty drunk, but unfortunately that's all we have. The few blokes coming home from a bar said they saw someone dragging a dead body down the drain."

"He might not be dead!" I snapped at him. The officer shot me a surprised look, but I didn't really notice.

"Yes, well," he continued, "we obviously need to get them out of there. Detective-Inspector, what do you suggest we do?" Lestrade thought for a long while before beckoning to Donovan and Anderson, leaving me with the police officer.

"So who're you?" he asked pleasantly.

"Emily Barber. I'm filling in for Sherlock Holmes, I guess," I replied sourly.

"Oh, really? Where is Mr. Holmes?"

"He was the 'dead body' being dragged down there," I said, pointing down the drain.

"Oh," the officer said, looking a little bit unnerved. An awkward silence followed before Lestrade came back with his consultants.

"We need to go down there," he said. "We have to look for Sherlock and the other man. Get someone to block off the street, Mathews," he said to the officer. "It could be awhile." Mathews checked his watch.

"Morning traffic will start in a few hours," he told us. "We shouldn't hold it off for _too_ long."

"We need you to go down there with us, Miss Barber," Lestrade told me. "The message was for you, and there's no telling what he could want."

I looked down the dirty sewer drain and cringed, the unwelcome thought of Sherlock, beaten or worse, popped into my mind. "Yeah," I sighed. "Yeah, I guess I'll go."

Lestrade then turned to Anderson, who backed away. "Oh, no, I'm with forensics. I'm not going down _that_."Lestrade turned to Mathews, who looked startled.

"I—I—," he stuttered. "_Fine_, I'll go. But I want a larger Christmas bonus!" he added in a mumble.

After much searching for flashlights, a hand radio, and guns, Lestrade decided we were ready to delve into the depths of London's sewer system. By this time, the sun was just peeking over the horizon, casting a golden glow around the tall buildings. As much as I was worried about Sherlock, being confined underground threatened to worry more. I pushed that thought to the back of my mind.

"You can go first," Lestrade said to Mathews, who looked just as grossed out as I felt. He glanced around helplessly before starting his decent down the ladder, Lestrade following close behind.

The sewer was…interesting. By that I mean it smelled horrible. There was a "fork in the road" so-to-speak at the bottom of the ladder. One corridor was dark, but the other had a flickering orange light glowing in the distance. No prizes for guessing which one we picked.

"This is the police!" Lestrade yelled down the tunnel, raising his gun. "Come out with your hands behind your head or we will come down after you!" He tried to peer down the corridor, but it was curved, making it impossible to see anyone.

A deep, booming voice laughed at his words, echoing along the walls. "Send me the girl," it demanded in an Italian accent. Lestrade and Mathews glanced at Donovan and me. Donovan stepped towards the light.

"Alright, I'm coming," she said cautiously.

"No!" the voice yelled. "The American!"

I blinked. It was like grade school—I wasn't surprised, but not exactly thrilled to be called on, either. I looked at Lestrade. He was fully professional now and clearly meant business.

"What do you want with her?" he called. The voice laughed again.

"Send her down, Mr. Lestrade."

"Okay…" he said quietly, handing me a flashlight. He hesitated before giving me a handgun. I looked blankly at it a moment before he cocked it for me. "Do you even know how to use one?" He asked warily. I shrugged, hoping to mask my nervousness.

"I've seen it on television. How hard could it be?" I asked before squaring my shoulders and starting down the hallway towards the light.

**Author's Note: Another week, another chapter! Let me know how you like it, either by review or pm—that would be lovely! **

**Thanks to my editors, including the lovely _She Steps On Cracks_, for her great editing job.**

**Same time next week!**

**~Salty**


	10. The London Sewer system

**Author's Note: As usual, I've had to re-do all my formatting-meaning bold/italics, spaces between paragraphs, apostrophes, and quotation marks- because the document uploader doesn't like me. If you notice a mistake, please let me know and, and I'll fix it. **

_The Man with Two Names _  
By the Salt Monster

Ch. 10  
The London Sewer system

I slowly walked down the corridor, holding my gun in what I was pretty sure was the right hand position. I must've been fifty feet or so away from Lestrade, when I saw a dark figure curled up against the wall of the tunnel. I aimed my gun and flashlight at it, only to find a familiar man in a maimed tuxedo.

"Sherlock!" I gasped, and knelt down next to him, setting down my gun and flashlight so I could use both of my hands. Relieved to be free of the burden of the gun, I turned him over. He had a few bruises and a large gash along his cheekbone, but other than that, he didn't appear to be physically harmed in any other way. The cut did look nasty, though, and for a brief moment I was worried about infection.

However, his eyes were open and glassy, his mouth slightly agape, and apart from his breathing and the occasional blink, he seemed dead. I pulled him into my lap and tried slapping his face gently to wake him up.

"Come on," I pleaded. His skin was ice cold. Then again, it was December.

"You _fool_," a voice said behind me. I whipped around. A tall man with curly black hair and olive toned skin was pointing a gun straight at me. If I'd been less panicked, I would've said he was pretty hot, the gun aside and everything. He had snatched up my flashlight from the ground, but my gun was hidden by my dress and digging into my leg.

"The maestro, right?" I asked, trying to seem calm and collected though I was a ball of raw panic inside.

"Michele Russo at your service," he said with a cold smile.

"You're very polite for a murderer, aren't you?" I commented. "First box seats, then introductions... There's someone else here, isn't there?" I asked. "The art director- I think I read her name in the program- Camilla or something, right?" A similar looking woman stepped out from the shadows. She was dressed nicely in a business suit and her hair pulled up into a tight bun.

"Camilla Russo," she said. "Michele's sister."

"Alright, " said, trying to stay calm. She didn't have a gun on her, but she looked just as imposing as her brother. I figured it must be genetics. "Why did you target Sherlock?" I demanded.

"Tut tut, Miss Barber, this isn't a television show," Michele sneered at me. "You don't get answers. I won't explain my 'huge elaborate plan' to you. I just kill you."

"Yeah, but since I'm going to die anyway, couldn't I at least know what's going on so I don t die completely confused?"

"No!" he yelled, his face starting to get red. "No questions! No answers!" Camilla whispered something in Italian to him and he sighed.

"Three questions," Miss Barber, he agreed.

"This is starting to sound like a Doctor Who episode," I muttered under my breath. "Why were you going after Sherlock?" Michele smirked.

"Because he's so fun to go after," he said cryptically. "Many have tried, few have succeeded. You have to be interesting enough to grab his attention, clever enough to hold it, and strong enough to get him into a trap such as this." He gestured to my lap, where Sherlock's head still lay. "My... _contact..._ suggested him as a worthy challenge. I must say, it was much easier than I expected. I m almost disappointed..."

"Your contact, who's that?" I demanded.

"I cannot tell you."

"Yes you can. I m going to die, aren't I? Just tell me."

"I cannot tell you because I do not know," he continued. "Just whispers, Miss Barber-little hints and clues along the way. The opera, the set-,"

"So you're not a real conductor?"

"-even the location of the box seats were planned according to his instructions."

I tried to swallow that information. Everything was a bit difficult to take in. So Michele wasn't really the one who wanted him dead?

"And not just Mr. Holmes," he said. "My contact is interested in _you_ as well, Miss Barber. _Very_ interested. You two are such unlikely companions it's almost- likely? Your ability to imitate- to recreate what you see is so valuable. You would be a great asset to own."

"Sorry, I'm not for sale," I spat. My leg started to throb from where my gun was cutting off circulation. I tried to shift nonchalantly so he wouldn't see it.

"One more question," Michele reminded me.

"Yeah, are you always this creepy?" I snapped. He smiled at me.

"Only when I m about to kill," he said. "Camilla, grab Holmes." His sister struggled with me, but managed to tear Sherlock from my grasp. She dragged him by his collar a few feet away from me.

"Hmn... who shall I kill first?" Michele asked mockingly. "Will it be you?" He pressed the barrel of the gun to the side of my head. I let out an involuntary whimper. "Or will I make you watch as I kill your friend?" He pointed the gun at Sherlock's chest.

"No!" I yelled. Michele gave me a gleeful smile.

"I think I ve just made up my mind," he said with a grin. Under my leg, I gripped the handle of my gun tightly.

He cocked his gun, taking care to aim directly at Sherlock.

"Say goodbye to Sherlock Holmes," he said menacingly.

Then, trying to remember anything I could from every action movie I had ever seen, I sprung up from the ground, swinging my gun out from behind me. I didn't even take time to aim properly before firing two shots.

Almost at once, I wished I hadn't.

Michele let out a blood curdling and clutched his stomach and I started to panic. Though my ears were still ringing from the sound of the gun shots, I realized someone was yelling at me. I looked down the corridor to see Officer Mathews sprinting towards me.

"Get the woman!" he screamed. "Go after her!" I whipped my head around to Camilla, who started immediately started running. I glanced back at Mathews and Michele, who had slumped against the wall, still moaning and holding his stomach. Making a split-second decision, I dashed after Camilla, the gun still in my hand.

My dress ripped several times as I ran after her, and my hair fell out of its bun and was flying behind me. We were well matched, but I was gaining on her. She stumbled in her high heels and tripped trying to turn a corner. She fell and I caught up with her, standing over her with my gun in my hand.

"Who else was in on this?" I demanded, not lowering my gun even though it was shaking horribly.

"I- I don t know!" she shrieked.

"_Who else_!" I was surprised to hear my voice with a hysteric edge.

"It was everyone!" she finally said. "The technicians, the orchestra they all knew about it! We had techies waiting in the wings for Holmes to show and the ushers locking the doors!" I took a sharp intake of breath. Whoever organized this went _big_.

"What about this consultant?" I asked coldly. The tone of my voice was alien; it surprised me but I only noted it detachedly.

"I don't know who it is," she cried. It was only Michele who talked to him, not me, I swear!"

I asked no more questions, but lowered my gun and waited for Mathews to show up, which only took a few minutes. He arrested Camilla, and we walked back to where Sherlock was.

An entire medical team had invaded the area and were running about. Sherlock was being taken away on a stretcher, and five or six paramedics were crowded around a different body lying on the ground. Blood was everywhere.

"He's losing too much blood!" a medic yelled and left the circle, revealing the pale face of Michele. Camilla collapsed to the ground and started sobbing, despite Mathews' attempts to hold her up.

"You've killed him!" she yelled viciously at me. "You've killed my brother!" As if glued to the ground, I gaped at the body, while paramedics continued to work. This wasn't my fault was it? It _couldn't_ be my fault.

"Is he-?" I choked, feeling light headed at the sight of all the blood.

"Let's go," Lestrade said. He took me firmly by the shoulder and guided me towards the ladder back to civilization. Shakily, I climbed the slippery rungs, wishing desperately to step into the sunlight.

Once up, he all but dragged me to an ambulance and sat me down on a stretcher. He asked me a question but my mind was still down in the sewers, where a man was hurt-_dying_-because of me.

My vision blurred until all I could see was the image Michele laying on the ground in front of me. I could hear voices, but they were too distant to make out and didn't match the picture that was fixated in my mind. Gradually, all the voices and images faded to black.

**Author's Note: Sorry I wasn't able to get this up yesterday, but it was sort of a... hectic day. Anyway, chapter ten. Comments? Questions? Feel free to review or PM me I'd love to hear what you think.**

**Once again, thanks much to my amazing editors, including TheAlmightyEditor and She Steps On Cracks. Lovely job, ladies!**

**My thoughts go out to those living/working/studying/visiting in Japan and those who have family living/working/studying/visiting in Japan, too. Best wishes.**

**I'll be back Friday of next week. Have a good one.**

**~Salty**


	11. 221B Baker Street, the next evening

_The Man with Two Names  
_By the Salt Monster

Ch. 11  
221B Baker Street—the next evening

I heard a rustling in Sherlock's flat and poked my head out of the kitchen, only to see him sitting up from the couch and rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"Oh good, you're up," I grabbed a hot cup of tea that was sitting on the counter and brought it over to him, bracing myself for what would probably be a barrage of questions.

"What happened?" He asked, massaging his temples. He looked paler than usual, and his hair was quite disheveled, but that was to be expected.

"Drink something; questions later," I told him, setting it down on the table in front of him.

"No. Tell me now." He demanded shortly, narrowing his eyes. I shook my head, indicating the cup.

"You get nothing until you've drank it." I said firmly. He scowled and made no move to take the item. I watched him with a hint of amusement, forgetting my inner conflict for a moment. "You really don't like it, do you? Not being kept in the loop?" He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl. I smiled slightly. "Of course, if you don't drink the tea then I'll just have to keep this violin I mysteriously found. I'd hate to un-string it but..."

He sighed disgustedly and picked up the mug, sipping at the hot liquid while I stood over him.

"What happened?" He asked again once finished his tea. I took a deep breath.

"Well, you were sort of attacked at the opera. I'm still not sure exactly what happened to you. I knew I had to find you, so I worked with Lestrade." Sherlock snorted at that and I shot him a cold look. Surprisingly, he heeded my warning. "We found you in the sewer but you were a bit…odd. At the hospital they said something about you being exhausted –-to be honest, I didn't understand most of it - but you've slept for about two days straight. I guess they were right."

We were both quiet for a moment before Sherlock changed the subject, speaking abruptly. "I was correct, wasn't I?" He asked eagerly. "It was the maestro and art director?"

"It was," I confirmed. He nodded knowingly_._

"Good. Call Lestrade and tell him I'll be in tomorrow to talk to _Signore_ Russo." Immediately, I felt a tightening in my chest. He still didn't know…

I bit my lower lip.

"Um, I… I don't know if that's a good idea…" I said hesitantly, clasping my hands.

"Did they get away?" He demanded, alarmed.

"No," I said vaguely. "They have Camilla - that's the art director - but not...Michele."

"The maestro is still at large?" I shook my head and sighed; I really didn't feel like going into it. I could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into my own, but I didn't dare meet them. I chose instead to stare at the floor, suddenly fascinated by the mysterious stains on the carpet.

"You killed him," Sherlock concluded after a long stretch of silence. It was a statement, not a question. I turned away. I couldn't bear to look at him; I didn't want to see his reaction.

"I didn't mean to," I said, trying to keep my voice level. I could feel a lump rising in my throat, and there was a traitorous prickle behind my eyes. "But he was about to kill you and then me. I didn't have much of a choice. I couldn't see any other..." I trailed off, squeezing my lids shut. Feeling a tear fall down my cheek, I quickly swiped it away. "I didn't even aim, I just wanted...wanted him to stop." I drew in a ragged breath, steeling myself to face his rebuke. Slowly, I turned back towards him. "It was either shoot or be shot."

"And I haven't just killed a man; I've killed a son, a brother, a friend… I know that sounds _really_ sappy, but it's true," I exhaled through pursed lips, attempting to pull myself together._ "_Now, if you don't mind, I'd really appreciate not talking about it ever again." I said briskly, putting an end to the conversation.

Sherlock eyed me for a moment before turning his attention back to the television, though I doubted he was actually watching anything. Some Christmas special was playing, but the dialogue was muted.

"So you killed a man," he said. His conversational tone made it sound as if it was simply an ice-breaker. I huffed.

"Sherlock, please. Just leave it alone." I glared at him, but he persisted.

"You must've had some emotional trauma, yes?"

"I went into shock, if you must know," I snapped. "Passed out, low blood pressure, dilated pupils - the whole, great, stinking shebang. Can you please drop it now?" My voice was more than a little desperate. He tapped a long, pale finger against his chin.

"It's remarkably interesting to observe the effects of a murder on someone not accustomed to violence." He turned back to the television. "You're reacting differently than I would have predicted."

"Keep talking about it and I _will_ be accustomed to violence," I threatened. "Now _drop it_." Sherlock raised an eyebrow slightly, but said no more on the subject. We fell into a long silence. The only sound was the rumble of cars outside.

"You almost missed Christmas," I blurted randomly, suddenly breaking the silence. "It's today." He shrugged. "And your brother came to check on you." He didn't say anything and instead continued to stare at the flickering screen. I moved myself in front of his line of sight, blocking his view. "Your _brother_," I said sternly, "Is the man paying me to spy on you." He glanced up at me, cocking a brow.

"Yes, didn't I tell you that?" I sighed.

"No, you didn't. And you wouldn't happen to know where my half of the money is, would you?" He looked at me innocently. I shook my head disbelievingly but continued. "John Watson's sister also called to tell you that his and Sarah's flight out of Germany is likely to get canceled, so they might not be home for a while."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?"

"He wouldn't be coming back _here_, anyway." Back to silence. I hoped this wasn't going to become a habit of ours.

"How are you feeling?" I asked for lack of anything better to say.

"Fine." He started to get up. "Oh, no you don't!" I said, pushing him back down on the sofa, feeling his forehead with the back of my hand. "Just as I suspected, you still have a fever. You're not going anywhere." He rolled his eyes and sank further into the sofa.

"Youngest child…" He muttered, scowling darkly. I went back in the kitchen for more tea. "You realize you're a complete contradiction to what you appear to be."

"It's okay; I'm an artist," I called back with a small smile.

I brought back another full mug and all but force-fed it to him. I sighed as I watched him drink it, one issue still weighing heavily on my mind.

"You have something else to tell me," He guessed, bringing the cup down from his lips. I blinked.

"I—well, yes, but I mean, it can wait," I stammered, suddenly flustered. He raised an eyebrow.

"Enlighten me."

"I..." I started but couldn't get the words out. I took a deep breath and plunged in. "I'm moving to France."

Silence. A blank stare.

"France?" He echoed tonelessly.

"Yeah, I was accepted to do an extra semester at an art school in Paris. After this whole ordeal, I need to get away—so I decided to accept. It's just a semester and I..." I trailed off as Sherlock's face darkened. I frowned at him. "Don't give me that look. I'll be back eventually."

"Well, of course it's up to you," He said stiffly, not meeting my eyes. "Congratulations. I'm sure it'll be wonderful."

"Oh that's unfair – don't do that. It's only five months—_I'll be back_," I assured him. Again, he didn't look at me. He had turned cold; as frosty as I'd first met him.

"Excuse me; I think I need more sleep." He retreated to the blankets on the sofa, curling up under them and completely covering his face.

"Oh, _come on_, don't act like a baby about this!" I said irritably, peeling the blankets away from his face. He snatched them back. Grumbling, I knelt down next to the sofa, across from where Sherlock's face was hidden under a layer of fluffy fabric.

"It's just a semester, Sherlock," I reminded him. "January to May - not that long! I'll be home before you know it, and in the meantime, Dr. Watson will be back-,"

"No he won't," The blankets said sullenly. "He has a wife now; he's not going to be interested anymore. He'll be a 'family man,'" He spat the words as if they were a curse. "All serious and boring."

"Oh, I doubt that," I insisted. "I've read his blog - he cares about you a lot. I'd be very surprised if that's changed. Why else would he blog about your adventures?" I gently pulled the covers away from his face. He was facing away so I could only see his curly black hair from where I was crouched. "He might not be living with you but you're still friends, right?"

"You're leaving too." The words were accusatory.

"I _promise_ I'm coming back - same apartment, same everything. I'll be here." He turned around to stare at me.

I stood up, dusting off my knees. "I'm not apologizing, you know," I warned.

And then one small thing told me I had him: a flicker of a smile.

"Neither am I."

**Author's note: Howdy, all. **

**This is the second to last chapter. Next week will be the last installment! **

**Make my day and tell me what you think!**

**Thanks.**

**~Salty**


	12. Epilogue, 221C Baker Street

_The Man with Two Names_  
By the Salt Monster

Epilogue  
221C Baker Street—two weeks later

"Okay," I muttered distractedly. "Okay, my cab will be here in a minute. I've got everything…yeah, everything." I looked around at my now empty apartment. I had only lived there three weeks… It was surreal.

I struggled up the stairs with my luggage, the heavy case making a disturbingly loud thud each time I lugged it up one flight.

"Here, let me help you." I almost fell back down at the unprecedented offer of assistance. I looked up at Sherlock, whose face was as unreadable as ever. I suddenly felt a pang of guilt for leaving him, but gladly handed him a suitcase.

We set them down next to the door along with one other suitcase. I glanced out the window. No taxi. Not yet, at least.

"I guess this is it," I said sadly, turning to Sherlock.

"For now," he corrected me. I nodded.

"Yeah, for now." I brushed dust from his suit jacket a little absentmindedly. "I've left some food in the freezer for you," I told him, smoothing down his collar. "There's a couple of containers of soup, if you want it. There's also some ground beef—you know how you can make anything from a pound of that. I don't know how much you'll be eating, but it might hold you over for a little while so you won't be bothering Mrs. Hudson…" I rambled on and on, nervously fiddling with Sherlock's attire. He didn't object to my semi-frantic fretting. "Of course, I've told her to check that you're eating – just in case the exhaustion creeps up on you again."

There was a loud honk from outside, making me jump. The taxi had arrived, meaning I had to leave.

"Well, I—I-," I stuttered. I stared up at Sherlock, trying to say everything left unsaid with just a look. "I'm going to miss you," I told him, stating the obvious. "No shooting the walls, okay? And don't put anymore heads in the fridge. It can't be healthy," I said, sounding like a mother talking to her child. I smiled sadly.

"I make no promises." He said mildly, but a rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. My own lips twitched. Outside, the cab's horn blared again.

"Alright," I said nervously. "Goodbye," I said to Sherlock, surprising him with a fierce hug. "Don't get into too much trouble without me!" I wondered offhandedly how long it would be before he showed up on my doorstep. I reckoned it'd be five, six weeks tops before he dragged me into some confounded, Parisian murder investigation.

I held him at arm's length, giving him a stern look. After one final appraisal, I kissed him on the cheek and ran out the door, leaving the apartment and the incredible man inside.

_The End_**  
**

**Author's Note: Early, because I'll be gone Friday and Saturday on the most unhappiest of terms.**

**But…I guess that's it! It's finally done! Wow, I have such a sense of accomplishment. **

…**Sequel? Let me know what you think about that possibility. I've definitely left it open-ended! I think I'm going to be re-working some bits in part I first, but keep your eyes peeled. **

**As always, I'd love to thank all of my editors, who have given me so much of their time and effort! Thanks to TheAlmightyEditor, She Steps On Cracks, Em, and Nob Ody for working so hard for me!**

**And thanks to you, the reader, for taking your time to give my story a shot! Thanks so much for sticking with it.**

**Regards,**

**~Salty**


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